


Loose Ends

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Replacement sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of his revolution is drawing near, and it's time for the rebelling colony to assert himself as a budding nation. France is more than happy to comply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What Little There is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/690311) by [stardropdream (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream). 



> Originally written in the Hetalia Kink meme, but reposted to LJ May 20, 2010. 
> 
> Prompt was for replacement sex between France/America where both were imagining the other was England. Though apparently it was achingly obvious it was me on the meme, since this fic/fill was heavily based off a fic I've written in the past, What Little There Is. You don't have to read that fic to get this one, though.

It was weird, to be in this situation finally. In fact, the entire situation itself was something America would never have envisioned for himself—not that it was a bad thing; aspiring nation or not, centuries old or not, he at least appeared as a young man, and young men had urges, right? (He thought that he remembered hearing someone say that once, most likely France, possibly England after he’d had too much to drink—but America didn’t let his mind linger on that man.)   
  
Paris wasn’t as he remembered it, from the brief times he’d visited. There were times when England was “feeling particularly masochistic” and Canada and America managed to convince him to let them visit _papa_ France (to which England always insisted they _do not call him that under any circumstances, especially when that French frog is in the room_ —but America was not thinking about England, not now). Regardless, it was a pretty sight from the window, and America tried to ignore that his hands were shaking and that France draped himself over the chair in such a way that suggested more than simple leisure.   
  
To be in this situation now was very strange. He’d spent years thinking he never would be, especially not with someone like this—his mind quickly blocked out images of England reassuring him that he would never have to make his own treaties (he wasn’t thinking about that man, after all). The room’s windows were open, rustling in a soft breeze that ruffled the thin white curtains. The sun was shining—it was midday.   
  
“Something capturing your interest out the window, _mon cher_?” France asked, his English heavily accented and sensual.   
  
America continued to look out the window for a long moment before shaking his head, turning again to watch France pull himself from the chair, curling his way around it with just the right jut of the hip that caused America pause and to swallow the thick lump growing in his throat. His fingers curled into fists before relaxing. He watched France move, almost like liquid.   
  
He swallowed again. He shook his head. “Not really.”   
  
“How cruel, my city does not please you?” France asked—no, almost purred.  
  
America shook his head again, worked the words out of his dry mouth. “It’s not that.”   
  
“Of course, your mind is elsewhere,” France said, and America’s eyes narrowed a moment before he turned his attention out the window again. France moved up next to him—America could feel the heat radiating off him—and America closed his eyes before thinking better of it and blinking them open.   
  
He felt the older nation settle close to him, felt the fingers on his hips before he felt the breath on his neck and he kept looking out the window, refusing to let his expression ripple. He focused on the rooftops, on the shape of the clouds, the way birds darted back and forth across his field of vision. It was so familiar, and yet so foreign. He swallowed thickly and heard the breathy chuckle in his ear.   
  
“No need to be afraid,” France offered.   
  
America stiffened up, turned his head to give France a determined look, almost a glare. “I’m not.”  
  
Instead of a glare back, which he half expected—that’s how En—  
  
He hadn’t expected the soft smile in return, slow, cat-like. The fingers on his hips shifted, spreading over his stomach and resting there as France pressed up against his back, resting his head on his shoulder. When France turned to press against his neck, America shivered with the stubble of France’s unshaven face pressing up against the smooth column of his neck.   
  
“ _Non,_ how rude of me—it is not like you to be afraid,” France conceded, lips grazing over the line of his jaw. His hands left America’s stomach to grasp the fluttering white curtains and wrench them shut over the window. The wind still swayed them out so that they brushed against America’s shins.   
  
France backed up, dragging America with him. America let himself be led, his throat dry and his heart beating. He refused to back down, though, refused to let France see his nervousness. He’d never done this before—he never thought he would, and not under these circumstances. If he was honest with himself, perhaps he’d always thought—  
  
France’s fingers were distracting, working at the buttons of his clothing. America sucked in a sharp breath and ignored the way France chuckled against his ear before biting at the lobe.   
  
“Though I am of course not one to question such things,” France whispered in his ear, “As it is not every day that someone as vibrant as you comes to my bed, I have to ask—are you sure this is not just your way of seeking new forms of rebellion?”   
  
“Huh?” America asked squinting. “You know why I’m here.”  
  
“Yes, yes, our alliance—of course,” France breathed and murmured a few words in French that America could not translate in time before France had switched back to English—damn his bilingual coos and his thick accent, both making him sway slightly against the other’s frame in a slight daze—“But is that all?”  
  
America’s brow furrowed and he turned to face France, trying to focus on the way France’s hands dragged over his skin instead at what it was he was hinting at. He regarded the slight smile on France’s face, coy, all too knowing. He didn’t like it, so he leaned up to kiss him instead. France hummed low in his throat, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss, cradling the back of America’s head and keeping him there even once America’s lungs begged for air.   
  
When they pulled apart America sucked in a rattling breath and France nibbled on America’s bottom lip before giving him the coy smirk again. “So young. I will enjoy this.”   
  
America watched in a silent daze as France pulled away from him, sitting down on the bed and working to remove his clothing with meticulous care. He smiled up at America and the younger realized he’d been staring and forced his eyes away with a blush he refused to acknowledge, and only worsened when France chuckled quietly.   
  
“Go on,” he urged.  
  
America’s hands lifted to his clothing, working to catch up with France. France was naked already, lying back in the bed and watching as America undressed, his fingers fumbling even as he tried to hide his uneasiness.   
  
“Are you certain you aren’t nervous?” France asked with a laugh.   
  
“Quit saying I am or else I’ll walk right out,” America muttered. He dropped the last of his clothing and moved towards the bed.   
  
“We most certainly want to avoid that,” France breathed.   
  
He felt an awkwardness as France openly stared at him, eyes tracing his body, unscarred and undefined, his skin still soft from his childhood years. He shivered under the gaze, unused to this and unsure, though he would never wish to acknowledge the uncertainty bubbling in his chest now. He sank onto the bed, and France seized his wrist, gently, pulling him over his older, scarred body. America planted his hands on either side of France’s face, staring down at him.  
  
“Am I correct in assuming this will be the first for you?” France asked, and looked amused and thrilled by the idea.   
  
America frowned and tried to sound as confident as he wished he felt. “And what of it?”   
  
France laughed, and one hand grazed hungrily down America’s chest, feeling the contours of his body, thrilling in the way America pressed against his hand, already biting back the small moan of pleasure. France’s expression was almost smug. His hand brushed over America’s hip, swirling his thumb along the cut of bone there. America stared at him.   
  
“He’ll be very unhappy, when he learns of this,” France said thoughtfully, eyes hooded.   
  
“Who?”  
  
“England,” France said evenly and almost laughed at the reaction.   
  
America reeled back, eyes wide and face flushing with anger. His fists clenched as he sat back, straddling France but looking as if he wanted to run away.   
  
“ _Don’t_ talk about him,” America hissed, voice shaking from anger.   
  
“His little rebel of a colony with one of his biggest annoyances,” France mused, hands grazing over America’s body, even as America glared. America almost wondered if France preferred the anger.   
  
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t care what he thinks,” America said quietly before deciding he sounded too weak and picking his voice up to a snarl. “It’s _my_ alliance to make.”   
  
“I suppose it is rude of me, to discuss him. After all, you’ve chosen to lie in my bed, not his.” France’s smile was all too knowing and America felt his body stiffen up, even unable to enjoy the feel of France’s hands on him.   
  
“I would never choose him,” America whispered, his voice hushed and it was clear from France’s smile that he did not believe America’s words. “Stop that.”   
  
France raised his eyebrows at him, not looking as offended as America figured he was trying to be. His hands drifted lightly over America’s skin, gentle and insistent, leaving a wake of fired skin behind him, leaving America aching for a more present, existent touch—for something to linger, and stay, and want to stay.   
  
“So angry,” France mused, arching his back to kiss at America’s jaw. America opened his mouth to speak, to snap out some retort but France was already there, licking into his mouth and tracing the contours of his teeth and inside of his cheeks. America shifted, pressed more firmly down on France, pressing up flushed against him and kissing him, gripping his face, pressing his fingers greedily into France’s long hair.   
  
America moved with an uncharacteristic uneasiness, pressing his hands against France’s skin and feeling the older man’s heartbeat, feeling the pads of his fingertips trace and drag over the dips of his skin, the caverns of his scars. France made a small breathless noise against his mouth as he pulled away to kiss at America’s throat and America took that for encouragement, and moved his hands downward. His hand fumbled around France before he started pumping him, steadily.  
  
Except now France was laughing and America pulled back, looking scandalized by the man’s laughter.   
  
“You have no rhythm to it, _mon cher,_ ” France said, laughter in his eyes as he tipped his head back, exposing his throat as he laughed.   
  
America didn’t find why it was quite so funny and blushed, brow knitting in anger. “What?”   
  
“Where is your finesse?” France purred, taking up America’s hand and passing his thumb over the calluses there. “Already, your hand is so firm and rough from all your hard-work. A worker’s hand. But in situations like this, you must have the hands of a musician—follow the beat.”  
  
“What beat?” America asked, incredulous. “You aren’t drunk, are you?”  
  
France laughed. “Oh, no! I want to remember the moment I take you clearly.”   
  
America’s face flushed more with that and he took his hand away from France’s. He asked, “Who said you’re taking me?”   
  
France laughed. “Oh, it shall be like that, will it?”   
  
America dared to give him a smirk. France grinned back, cat-like, before flipping his legs and shoving America down into the bed sheets before the boy could even defend himself. He blinked owlishly up at France, whose grin had softened to just a self-satisfied smile as he pressed his body down on America’s. America could have pushed him off, if he’d really wanted to, but the lips on his collarbone were distracting.   
  
“If I am to help you in your little rebellion, British America,” France purred, “Isn’t it only fair that I have something in return?”   
  
America flinched. “Don’t call me that.”   
  
“With my help,” France said, looking America in the eye. “It’ll be certain that no one will ever call you that again.”   
  
America sucked in a sharp breath, felt a spike of desire twist in his gut. France’s hands were on him now, and America closed his eyes, sinking into the bed as France’s lips and fingers traced the lines of his golden skin.   
  
“Now then,” France purred against the curve of his jaw. “About rhythm.”   
  
“What about it?”   
  
“Things like this, in many ways, are not just natural skill, _mon cher,_ it is practice and understanding, it is not about how quickly or slowly you can move per se, but, rather, how you move it.”  
  
He captured up America’s hand again, brushing his lips over the knuckles.  
  
He whispered, “Whether with one’s hand or with one’s mouth.”  
  
America stifled a small moan as France swiveled his hips against America’s. “Show me,” America commanded, “Show me.”   
  
“England won’t be happy knowing you’re doing this with me,” France said again, as if testing for something. America couldn’t possibly understand what it was that France was getting at, what it was he was searching for—so he responded the only way he could allow himself to.   
  
“I don’t _care_ what England thinks,” America snapped, quickly, his blue eyes burning as hot as the steady pulse inside him, the steady, twisting heat that he told himself was hate—he _hated_ England. “Why do you keep talking about him, anyway? If it’s meant to make me confess to something, you can save your breath. I _hate_ England.”   
  
“I am not trying to make you confess to anything, America,” France said with a smile that suggested otherwise. He arched and kissed down America’s chest, over his belly button, kissing along the trail of hair leading downwards, where he was half-hard already. “Now,” France said, hot breath brushing over America’s feverish skin, “I will teach you about rhythm.”  
  
Except it seemed France’s methods of teaching involved no words and sending America’s mind spiraling into a pit of pleasure, unable to focus on anything—France took him in his mouth and licked and sucked until America was hard, biting back cries of pleasure as his fingers curled almost painfully tight into France’s wavy hair. France did not pull away, sucking and taking more and more of America into his mouth, hands holding down his hips to keep him from bucking up so forcefully. Before America could reach the peak, could lose himself in shouting and not having to actually _think_ about anything, however, France pulled away, licking his lips and smiling slyly up at America.   
  
“Do you understand?” he asked.  
  
“… What?” America asked once he realized France was talking.  
  
France chuckled. “My, my.”  
  
“Are you going to…?” America asked, trailing off.  
  
France stared up at him with half-hooded eyes, before lifting his head away from the apex of America’s thighs, regarding him with a steady gaze. He searched for something in America’s longing face, and decided that the boy was being too complacent.   
  
“Hmm,” France hummed, one hand curling between America’s thighs and squeezing, eliciting a small gasp of pleasure from the other, even as his face contorted with anger at his words: “Would you like me to show you what England likes?”  
  
“Would you stop talking about him?” America barked. His determination to not think, and to focus on the pleasure of France’s touches, evaporated on the spot. He could taste the bile rising in his throat. “Are you even listening to me, France?”   
  
“I am listening. Are you?” France asked, smiling.   
  
America’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like what you’re hinting at—or maybe the fact that you keep bringing him up means you want him instead of me?”   
  
France laughed, a loud guffaw almost, his hands roaming over America’s body, smoothing over his thighs, tracing his hips, and counting his ribs. France smiled, smooth and low and sultry. America turned his face away, glaring at the wall. There was a stilted silence where neither said anything, and when America turned back to stare down at France, he refused to wonder why it was that France did not answer the question.   
  
“I hate England. I don’t want to talk about him,” he told him, in a voice he hoped was commanding and indicative of his desire to stop all veins of this conversation. He added, “Especially not in your bed.”   
  
“Hatred is so passionate,” France mused, thumb following the line of America’s ribs, curling up and into his hair, pulling him up. “Show me some of that passion, boy.”  
  
He dragged America up and took his mouth—America was fine with this, as kissing France was rather nice, and France not talking about England was even nicer. America hadn’t come all the way to France for the sake of listening to the man he was desperately trying to get away from. Independence. That was all he desired now. And hopefully France would help him achieve that—and he could be rid of that _tyrant_ as quickly as possible—  
  
Why was he thinking about him?   
  
He pulled away from France’s mouth with a short intake of breath, eyes widened. France blinked his eyes open and hummed a silent question at America.   
  
America shifted, pushing France back down onto the bed and shifting his body downward. Looking up at France through the gold of his fringe, America saw France smile encouragingly at him, face hazed with desire. A hand curled into America’s hair as America took up France’s cock again, hard and firm in his hold.  
  
“Careful of your teeth,” France warned as America licked his lips and opened his mouth.  
  
America looked up at him and shivered.   
  
France smiled. “Curl your lips over the edges of them.”  
  
America thought this over and did so, then slowly slipped the tip of France’s cock into his mouth. He heard France inhale appreciatively and America lowered his head, taking as much of France into his mouth as he could before he choked and had to back away a little—he couldn’t take as much of France as France did of America, but it was enough for France to stroke the back of America’s hair in encouragement. America closed his eyes, focusing on the task, refusing to lose. He tried to mimic France, bobbing his head.  
  
“Don’t hollow your cheeks,” France was telling him, “Don’t be afraid to use your tongue.”   
  
America sucked him in closer, stroked his tongue along the underside of France’s cock. France hissed low in satisfaction, his grip on America’s hair tightening.  
  
“The rhythm, America,” he reminded, and used both hands to move America’s head in the way it was meant to move, keeping his hold light and gentle, slower than how France had moved. America let France lead him, choking only slightly when he took more than he was prepared for into his mouth. America fucked France with his mouth, using his tongue when he could, trying to relax and enjoy the feel of it. But it felt empty, it felt different. If he was honest with himself he’d always thought—  
  
“You’re losing the rhythm,” France interrupted, and America realized belatedly that France wasn’t moving him anymore, America was moving himself.   
  
America kept his eyes clenched shut, wondering why the bile was rising in his throat, why he was going soft. France was hard and warm in his mouth, his hands stroking the hair from America’s face, tracing the lines of his still slightly boyish face.   
  
France hissed. “Careful. Your teeth.”  
  
America pulled the cock from his mouth, staring up at France before licking his lips. He didn’t apologize, but France was still smiling, shivering almost. America lowered his gaze, unable to look at that face. His lips pillowed over the length of France’s cock, from tip to root, covering the areas his mouth couldn’t reach all the way around. He kissed him and sucked the tip into his mouth, swirling it with his tongue, careful not to scratch the sensitive skin with his teeth. The hands stroking his hair moved a bit more feverishly now—America supposed he was doing it right, then.   
  
“So gentle, who would have thought you’d be gentle?” France mused, tipping his head back and cupping the back of America’s head, forcing America to take more of him into his mouth. America choked again, but resumed the pace, bobbing his head up and down on France’s cock, letting France fuck his mouth.  
  
America pulled away a moment, hesitated, then asked, “Were you wondering if I’d be gentle?”   
  
He looked up at France and France looked down at him.  
  
“You want me to be rough, don’t you?” America demanded, suddenly feeling angry.   
  
France laughed. “Ah… so angry so suddenly.”  
  
“Do you want me to be angry?” America demanded, refusing to turn his gaze away from France.   
  
France shrugged, and then shifted, dragging America up away from his cock and to his face, turning so that it was America pinned to the bed, France over him and kissing the corner of his mouth with a breathy laugh that fluttered over his face and brushed against his hair. America closed his eyes, arched slightly, parting his lips so that France could slip in his tongue.   
  
When they pulled away, America said, not without a sneer, “Maybe you find the anger so amusing because you’re thinking of someone else.”  
  
“Hmm,” France hummed. “Is that what you think?”  
  
“Why else would you be talking about Eng—him?” America asked.   
  
“Hmm. Perhaps.”  
  
“Perhaps,” America parroted.  
  
“It seems I’m being a horrible host,” France said. “You’re soft.”  
  
America didn’t care about that at the moment, he was too busy staring up at France. France, for his part, stopped kissing him and simply watched him back, politely so. Almost condescendingly so.   
  
“You want me to be angry, don’t you?” America asked again.   
  
France smiled at him. “Why would I want that, America?”  
  
“Because it reminds you of England,” America insisted, and ignored the way his stomach flopped at the sound of the man’s name from his own lips.   
  
“You are like him,” France said with a low chuckle.   
  
“I’m nothing like him,” America insisted. America’s eyes narrowed to a harsh glare.  
  
“You are so much like him,” France mused. “Very much so.”  
  
America balked—loudly. He looked—hoped he looked—disgusted at the mere suggestion. “I’m not going to be anything like him. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. Once I drive him from what’s mine, I never want to see him again.”   
  
“It’s a dangerous thing, America, to define yourself by another.”   
  
“I’m _not!_ ”  
  
“To vow to be nothing like him, to be his opposite, means you are holding him as the standard for which you measure yourself, am I right?”   
  
“No… you aren’t…” America muttered, and knew he sounded childish without having a proper comeback to give. “Stop talking.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because—I am not defining myself by him, and I am nothing like him. I hate him. I hate him—!”  
  
He cut himself off, looking away. He closed his eyes, clenched them shut.   
  
It burned in the pit of his stomach. It was too twisting to be desire, to be something pleasant and gentle. The loose ends of the feeling curled painfully in his gut, wrenching, working its way steadily up to his heart where it squeezed. He had to bite his lip, had to look away from France, his eyes searching out someone who wasn’t there and someone he didn’t want to want.   
  
“Don’t look so sad,” France reprimanded gently, but not paternally, not sympathetically. Not like— “It’s unbecoming for someone like you. Aren’t you supposed to be happy, determined that things will go the way they’re meant to, for you?”  
  
America scoffed, because it seemed the proper response. The curling in his stomach burned, making him want to squirm away from the sensation, wanting to grab everything and run—but he couldn’t run, he couldn’t run back to the person he never wanted to see again. He would be free. He would be independent. He wouldn’t have to rely on that person anymore, not that nation.   
  
“You aren’t going to cry are you, _mon cher_?”   
  
America’s face crinkled and he turned his attention up at France and glared. “No. Don’t say unnecessary things.”  
  
“You’ve been fighting the urge to cry since you’ve arrived here,” France said with a shrug. “Especially,” he said, quietly, as he leaned in close, so close he could feel the breath on his lips and their noses bumped, “When you say you never want to see him again—that you hate him.”   
  
America stared.  
  
France smiled. “See, right there. Something flickered in your eyes.”  
  
“No,” America protested, quietly, “There’s nothing in my eyes.”   
  
“Sadness and betrayal—I can see it,” France said with a slow smile. “It is something all nations know, America.”   
  
“Are you going to sleep with me or what?” America demanded. “Aren’t you supposed to be obsessed with sex? Why do you keep _talking?_ ”   
  
“I am just merely curious,” France said. “And it is disheartening, to know that even I cannot wipe the sadness from your face, distract you long enough to make you cry out.” His hands fluttered over America’s body, but he was too moody, too angry to react. “And I do not sleep with people who will cry for other reasons, America. It is not romantic in the least.”   
  
“I’m not going to cry! Damn it!” America cried out, squirming, trying to get away from France. But he needed to do this—he wanted to do this, right? To solidify his treaty, to experience this. And maybe, if he was perfectly honest with himself, give England a reason to become really, truly angry, to show England that he really didn’t need or want him. Even if that was—  
  
“Why do you look as if you will cry when you say you hate England, America?” France asked in the way that he spoke when he already knew the answer. America stared at him, desperately wishing he could disappear, that this was over, that France would just _get it over with_ so he could leave.   
  
“I don’t look that way! I _hate_ England because he’s a tyrant and taking from me what is mine!”   
  
“You are not a good liar, America,” France said, and dragged his hand over his leg, from ankle up to hip. “When you are like this, alone, in your bed—whose name do you call out?”   
  
America’s eyes widened and he recoiled, trying to kick at France. “ _Stop it!_ ”   
  
“Does it make you sad to think of who he must call for, when he is in his own bed? I can see it in your eyes—you want it to be you, and yet you know that it is not.”  
  
“Are you sure you aren’t talking about yourself? Fuck!” America cursed, lifting his hands to push France away and then covering his face with his hands, blocking his expression from view. He stayed, supine, on France’s bed. He took in a shallow breath, then a deeper one. He tried to calm down. He kept his hands pressed to his face.   
  
“I am sure of it,” France whispered in his ear.   
  
America flinched. “Stop it.”   
  
“I’m upsetting you,” France said with a sigh.   
  
“You aren’t,” America protested, stubborn.   
  
“I merely meant to get you riled up, America, to make you angry. I hadn’t meant to make you so unhappy as to withdraw completely,” France said, and he actually did sound apologetic. America peeked at him through his fingers before shifting his attention up to the ceiling, hands still over his face. He didn’t move.   
  
“Angry…” America said, testing the word, then trailing off.   
  
“To see the fire in his eyes reflected in yours,” France breathed in his ear.   
  
“So why don’t you fuck him if you want to so badly?” America demanded.  
  
“Why don’t you?” France returned  
  
“You _know_ why!” America shouted.   
  
“Do I?”  
  
“Because I hate him!”   
  
France laughed, a mockery of amusement. “No, you don’t.”   
  
“I do,” America insisted. “I’m at war with him—how could I possibly—”  
  
“Or could it be that the reason is—he does not want you?” France asked.   
  
“That’s your problem,” America snapped back, and knew it was true once he said it. He shifted his gaze, glaring up at France. “You want him, but he despises you. That’s why he’s angry all the time with you, why he was rough. You want him, but you can’t have him.”  
  
France smiled, and this time it did not look amused. America could see the sadness and betrayal in his eyes—the emotions all nations possessed. America wished he hadn’t seen it, wished he could ignore it now that he knew it existed.   
  
“Sometimes,” France said, “It’s so easy to make someone into a picture of evil. A bad man, you would say. Even if they had done good things for you, before. It’s better to focus on the bad, yes? It’s so easy… even if, in reality, you want that person more than you could possibly say—this good, or bad, person.”   
  
America felt something shift and break inside him. Something shattered. The loose ends curling in his belly snapped to attention and exploded.   
  
“What the fuck am I supposed to do, France? He wouldn’t listen to me! I hate him, I hate him! If he really cared about me as much as he said he did—why did he not stay longer? I cried so much when I was little, when he went away. And then when I want him to leave—he refuses to! It’s too late! Why did he give me all this freedom and then think he could take it away from me without saying a word? Does he know me at all?”  
  
“Calm down,” France advised.   
  
America took in a shaking breath. But he refused to cry. He leaned away, rolled, curled into himself. “Damn it! Some of my people—so many of my people—they didn’t want war! They just wanted to be listened to! They were loyal to him—I was loyal to him… all I wanted was—all I wanted was for him to look at me, to understand me, to care enough to listen to me—”  
  
“I know,” France said.  
  
“Fuck, even now there are some of my people who are loyal to him! Even now, there are people who want the war to end. But there are so many who want to be listened to, want to be independent. That’s all I can want now, because everything else is impossible…”   
  
“England rarely listens to anyone but himself, and his own desires,” France said. “Understand this, America. I have known him for centuries.”   
  
America stared up at him, eyes wide and for the briefest of moments, with tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly a moment and France turned his face away politely, to give the boy a minute. America cleared his throat, his face contorted in anger now.   
  
“He could not see you as an equal, like this, America. You are his, under his protection and control.” France moved to his side, brushed up against him. America took in a steadying breath and turned to face him, pressing up flush to France. He still looked angry, and he frowned at France.  
  
“Not anymore,” America whispered, angry that he could still feel the burning sensation of tears against the back of his eyes. “Never again.”   
  
They stayed like that a moment, and then America stiffened up.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “Fine.”   
  
“Hm?” France asked.  
  
“You want it rough?” America asked with narrowed eyes. He shoved France onto his back. “I’ll give it to you rough—look, you’re soft now, too. Be rough. I’ll be England.”   
  
France stared at him.  
  
America stared back. “How did England like to receive it?”   
  
“I never asked,” France said. He was getting hard again in America’s hand, though.   
  
“Then we’ll improvise,” America said confidently, and pushed his hand hard, almost painfully, against France’s cock, fisting it and pumping it, trying to keep the rhythm without losing the speed and friction.   
  
France laughed, a bit breathless, unsure what to do with America now that he seemed to be taking matters into his own hands. America narrowed his eyes at him and shoved him down again when he started to lift. His hand moved vigorously, the feeling of fiction leaving his hand warm and France hard.   
  
“You don’t have to be England, America,” France said. “I don’t think you’d enjoy that.”  
  
“No,” America admitted, ducking his head. The hand on France’s cock slowed, becoming more gentle.   
  
“Then, come, let us finish this before you really do begin to cry.”  
  
“I’m not going to!” America protested, but France was already rolling away, capturing the oil from the table beside the bed and smiling up at America. His hand grasped the younger boy’s shoulder, turning him. He took America’s hands and let them rest on the headboard.   
  
“Up, up,” France instructed, patting America on the ass.  
  
America glared at the pillows but did as was asked of him, getting up on his knees, arching his back and glancing over at France over his shoulder. France smiled at him, unhurried, and then slid up next to him, France’s inner thighs pressing up against America’s outer thighs, his cock pressing into the cleft of America’s ass. America turned his face away and closed his eyes, breathing out.  
  
France pressed his chest against America’s back, hand reaching around to grasp America’s neglected cock, pumping it until it was hard. America tried to block out everything leading up to this point, tried to imagine how nice it felt to have someone else’s hand on him, not his own. It didn’t matter if it was France, or anyone—it was someone, it was someone who was not—   
  
That was what mattered—someone who would help him become free from—  
  
He wasn’t going to think about him. He blocked his thoughts.  
  
He couldn’t: “I hate him. I do hate him, France.”  
  
“I know, _mon cher._ ” France didn’t sound as if he was simply accepting America’s words, but considering them deeply. He pumped America’s cock until the younger wasn’t able to stifle a tiny cry and with a swirl of his thumb across the head, the hands returned to America’s backside. He poured the oil on his hands and began to prepare America. He gave no warning for it, and the new experience caused America to jolt in surprise and hiss in pain. “Do you not want this?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” America said, clenching his eyes shut as oiled fingers squirmed into him. He squirmed in turn. His teeth dug into his lip, almost caused it to bleed, to shred it with his teeth and let himself feel something, something to focus on—but he restrained himself. His fingers gripped the headboard until his knuckles turned white and the wood threatened to splinter from the strain.   
  
“So young,” he heard France murmur to himself. “So inexperienced, yes?” He murmured something to himself in French, and America didn’t concentrate enough to catch all the words—except for England’s name. France sighed. “Don’t tense up, _mon cher._ ”   
  
“I’m not,” America growled. “What did you say, in French?”  
  
“Nothing,” France said, cryptically so.  
  
America opened his eyes and stared at the headboard. Then he turned his head to stare at France over his shoulder. France was busy spreading oil on his fingers and working on loosening America up, in order to enter him. America bit his lip a moment before giving a tiny snort.   
  
“I’m not going to break.”  
  
“You have never done this before,” France disagreed with a small shake of his head. He glanced up at America and dropped a haphazard kiss at the base of his spine.   
  
“What did you say?” America repeated, insisted.   
  
“You really are a beautiful creature, aren’t you?” France purred as his hand slipped over America’s back. “I cannot fully blame him, for wanting to keep you.”   
  
America clenched his eyes shut, grit his teeth. “He doesn’t want me for something like this.”  
  
France chuckled, but said nothing. His fingers returned to their task. America stifled more gasps and moans and grunts.   
  
“I hate him.”  
  
“You don’t need to convince me,” France reminded him.   
  
But America just shook his head, gripping the headboard of the bed as France spread his fingers inside him and he stifled a cry. “I hate him. For everything that he’s done, everything… he hasn’t done. I hate him for not listening to me, for not caring about me like he said he does. I hate him, I hate him.”  
  
“He does care for you, America,” France said.  
  
“I don’t want what he wants to give me,” America muttered. “And he won’t give me what I want, unless I take it.”   
  
“Of course,” France agreed. “That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for America’s reply. “But, tell me, America,” France purred. “When England learns what I have done to you—how will he react?”  
  
“He’ll—”  
  
“Do you truly believe his anger will only be because of your disobedience, that you would form an alliance with his enemy?”  
  
“Because I’m ‘his,’” America said with a roll of his eyes. “He’ll be angry that I’m doing things on my own, as if I’m already independent.”   
  
“Perhaps,” France said. “But…”  
  
America shook his head, staring up at the ceiling. “France. Stop. To him, I am only his little brother, and his colony. That’s all I am.” He lifted his chin, trying to be confident. “I’ll make him see me as an independent nation—even if that means we’ll be enemies. I’ll be his equal. No, I’ll be better than him.”   
  
America nodded his head and pressed his forehead against a pillow, burying his face. He mumbled, into the pillow, wondering if France could even hear him:   
  
“And I hate him the most for making me hate him.”   
  
France removed his fingers and America waited, felt France pull him apart and push his cockhead into America. America stiffened up but forced himself to relax around the pain. He bit into the pillow to keep from crying out, gripping the headboard until he felt that it did splinter under his hold. His breathing came out shallow. A hand pressed over his hair and America tried to ignore it—he didn’t want affection, never any affection: not if it wasn’t—  
  
France pushed into him completely and waited. It burned, it was painful. But America kept still, biting into the pillow until he felt his shoulders relax and his body sink slightly. France gripped his hips, keeping him pushed up to France’s hilt. America felt stretched, filled—it lingered, it stayed.  
  
America lifted his head from the pillow, staring at the broken headboard, his hands gripping broken wood. He bit his lip and straightened up, arching his back slightly. He felt the scrape of France’s stubble over his shoulder as he kissed the back of his neck. America clenched his eyes shut. He swallowed a whine bubbling in his throat, replaced it with a tiny moan. He swallowed thickly a few times more.  
  
And then France moved, with a subtle jerk of his hips. America staggered slightly, unused to the feel, and clenched his hands in the pillows now, finally letting go of the headboard. The bed creaked beneath them as France moved. France was talented—America could feel it in his body, how easily France moved and searched and stretched him, filling him and stretching him. America had never felt this way before, and yet—  
  
So quickly, as soon as his mind settled on it, the guilt washed over him. He bit his lip and perhaps for the first time that day listened to France’s words—what would England do when he learned about this? He didn’t want to think about it but already he saw a flicker of England in his mind’s eye, face closed off, eyes angry, expression scathing and dismissive— _“So this is the kind of thing you’ve resorted to, America? Whoring yourself out to France of all people?”_ —and it filled America with the guilt, with the shame. Then the anger came, hot and fresh, churning in his gut, forcing the rising bile back down his throat. _Yes,_ he told the England he saw there, with disgusted eyes staring straight at America, _This is what I choose._   
  
“Harder, you French frog,” America snapped out, wondering if that was how England would say it, if he were in this situation. _Don’t look at me like that, England, not if you would and probably do things like this for your own benefit, too._   
  
France pounded into him harder. His body burned and he cried out. France’s hands left his hips, pressing against his stomach to push him closer, while the other lifted to cup his chin, tipping America’s face back.  
  
Eyes hooded, America flickered his gaze over to France, who was smiling at him coyly. The way he smiled, for a brief moment, it almost looked like an expression England might have—but quickly it was gone, and it was France pounding into him. America wet his dry lips, felt the fingers brushing over his adam’s apple. _“I’m so disappointed in you, my lad,”_ England would tell him as he moved against France, thrusting back to meet France’s upwards thrusts, crying out in pleasure as he clenched his eyes shut and stared at England, angry green eyes, face pale. _“How could you do this to me?”_   
  
“I…” America began, before realizing that he was speaking out loud and quieted down, his body quivering. France’s hand found America’s cock and pumped it in time with his thrusting. America’s body burned.   
  
He was falling down, he was falling. He’d built everything up—he would jump, he would dive, he would… he would just fall down.   
  
France held him up, even as America’s body shook.   
  
_“You are_ mine _, and don’t you forget that,”_ he heard England hissing in the corners of his mind.   
  
“No,” America gasped out and France paused. America shook his head, almost shoving himself against France. He felt France’s legs shake. “Keep going.”   
  
_“You think this would make me happy, America?”_   
  
“There,” America gasped when France’s body found a proper rhythm, pushing in and out of him, hand strumming along his cock—fingertips light while pulling downwards, and then dragging up almost painfully.   
  
France whispered something in America’s ear but America did not hear—it was in French, and his mind was filled with English:   
  
_“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, America. I hope you’re happy about what you’ve done. After everything I’ve done for you how could—”_  
  
“Ah,” America cried out as France’s cock inside him dragged across his insides and struck the bundle of nerves with the tip of his cock. He cried out again as France paused and then shoved in again to hit him again there. He angled his body to strike it each time, and America’s cries punctuated the torture.   
  
_“Only I’m allowed to touch you—no one can be near you. You think you’re so clever, doing something so rebellious as this? You foolish boy, you foolish, foolish boy—”_  
  
“Mmm,” America gasped out, the fingers on his throat stroking, gripping his chin and tilting his head back again.   
  
_“Perhaps if I’ve given you more discipline when you were younger... you doing as you pleased couldn’t have done any good for you. I should have struck you—”_  
  
“Harder!” America cried out. France obeyed.   
  
_“Are you content to act so rashly, America? How dare you let him touch you like that, begging for—”_  
  
“More,” America gasped. France obeyed.   
  
_“You can’t possibly have wanted this—”_  
  
“Yes,” America gasped into the pillow. _I do._ France pounded into him, their bodies only loud slaps in the afternoon. America opened his eyes, refused to listen to this hypothetical England again—but it was just as well, as he was silent now.   
  
America’s body shifted, arched, head thrown back and body shuddering. He could feel France lean against him, kissing his neck—his pulse—and he swallowed thickly, tried to swallow the small moans pushing out from the base of his throat. It was too much and not enough. The hands touching him, the cock pounding into him, the body pushed up against him—  
  
He was nearing the end. His body shuddered and France purposefully slowed his pace down, feeling the shift in America. His hand over his cock moved agonizingly slow, and each stroke of his cock inside America was a slow cadence building to a crescendo. America jerked, refused to beg because he was stronger than that.  
  
And then the flood of pleasure filled him and his cock twitched in France’s hand as he milked him dry. Low, quiet, as if he hadn’t said it at all, America whispered, his voice broken: “England…”   
  
France’s movements stilled for a half a moment and America didn’t know if it was shock or acceptance. He didn’t say anything as he smeared his hands through the seed splattered on America’s stomach. America’s head was bowed, pressed against the pillow as his entire body dulled down—  
  
He felt the fiery heat leave, the pleasure and the hatred, felt nothing but the icy coldness left. France kept jerking into him, working towards his own climax, but America’s mind was elsewhere, far, far away from this room. The shame filled him, cursing himself for daring to say the name of the man he was meant to hate, who he _did_ hate.   
  
France stilled inside him and America felt the warmth return as France spilled his seed inside of him, but it was a small victory. He didn’t move, slumped slightly. Then, slowly, France pulled out of him and his lands left America. America collapsed onto his stomach immediately afterwards, refusing to lift his face—bright red with shame—from the pillow.   
  
He felt France get off the bed and the world felt a little colder. He stayed still. But soon enough, he felt the mattress dip as France sat back down and pressed something against his backside. America started, jerking his head up and staring at France in wide-eyed surprise. France gave him a small smile, taking his hand away but leaving the towel there.  
  
“It’ll spill out of you, once you sit up,” he explained.   
  
“Oh,” America said, looking away. He fisted the towel in his hand and stayed there, not moving. Slowly, his face dropped back down into the pillow.   
  
“America,” France said at last, “If I may so bold as to say that I think—”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” America mumbled into the pillow.  
  
“Yes, I suppose you don’t…” France said with a small shrug. His tone suggested something else entirely and America rolled over onto his back. He glared at France. France merely smiled back.   
  
“I don’t…”   
  
“So it’s true, then,” France purred. “You were thinking of him.”  
  
It seemed France didn’t know how to listen. Maybe he could understand why certain people found him annoying, at times. America’s glare intensified. “No.”  
  
“Really?” France said, leaning in closer, but not touching America. “But it was his name that you called for, when it really mattered.”  
  
“What about you?” America shot back. “Who did you call for?”  
  
“We are not discussing me,” France said with a shrug. “And you know the answer, anyway. I,” he said smoothly with weighty emphasis, “am not in denial of what it is I want.”   
  
“Are you saying I’m in denial?”  
  
France raised his eyebrows at him. America felt his hackles raise and he sat up. He felt France’s seed move in him, start to slide out into the towel beneath him. America’s cheeks burned—from anger, he hoped.   
  
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want him.”  
  
Still, France said nothing.  
  
America laughed, to try and make his shoulders loosen. “You say the weirdest things, France! Me, want him! Ha, ha, ha…”  
  
France smiled.   
  
America looked away. “I don’t—”  
  
He cut himself off. He fell into silence. He swallowed thickly, a few times, to try to ignore the way his heart had lodged in his throat. It did nothing.   
  
“You truly don’t want England, America?”   
  
America stared down at the bed sheets, rumpled from their excursion. The daylight was beginning to fade, but the wind still rustled the white curtains. Outside, beyond, Paris was moving—and beyond that, beyond the miles of French soil was England. England…   
  
America shook his head. “There’s one thing I want.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I want him to leave me alone and leave me be and to stop with—” he began. France gave him a disbelieving look, all too knowing, and America knew he couldn’t deny it—couldn’t deny that it was England that he saw, England that he called out for. Even now, even now when he hated him, when he couldn’t stand the sight of him, he wanted to—he wanted—“I want him to… I want him…”   
  
“Sweet America,” France said, and this time did sound sympathetic as he cupped America’s cheek. America pulled his face away, eyes wide and wild, feeling as if he were a cornered animal. “Sweet America,” France said again, “You needn’t have pretense with me. You are not the first one, nor will you be the last, to not get what it is you want from dear England.”   
  
“I’m going to get what I want,” America shouted, hands shaking as he planted them on the bed, eyes narrowed. “I’ll become independent. And you’ll help me, won’t you?”  
  
France smiled, almost sad, and pushed up to kiss the thumping pulse in America’s neck. France pulled away, letting his fingers tangle in America’s hair. He chuckled, low in his throat. “That is all you want?”   
  
“Yes,” America said firmly.   
  
France smiled at him, and it was clear that he did not believe America.   
  
“Then…” France began, stroking the hair from America’s face. “I’ll help you.”  
  
America closed his eyes, focusing on the way the hand against him felt distinctly different from anyone else he’d ever known—France’s hands, only. He pulled the older nation close, tangled his fingers in the hair, soft, silkier than any hair he’d ever known. He focused on the smell of France’s sheets, the scent of flowers in his hair—  
  
He closed his eyes and kissed France. France.   
  
He focused on everything that wasn’t what he wanted.


End file.
